The Word
by Tanny
Summary: UPDATED 92106 [chrestomanci] If you found a word you'd never seen before, what would you do? Check the dictionary, ignore it, ask a friend? Well, what if that word was Chestomancy?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: HE belongs entirely to DWJ. I'd go so far as to say that HE belongs entirely to himself, but that might mean that I'd be overstepping copyright laws somewhere. This disclaimer is going to be an author's note, too: anything that doesn't seem right in this chapter is INTENTIONAL. Really. I mean it. That's the way it's supposed to be. You'll understand once you've finished the chapter. Enjoy!_

**The Word**

**- 1 -**

I've experimented with saying it several different ways. You can put the emphasis on the first syllable, so that it sounds like you're cursing at someone; or on the second syllable, which makes the entire word resemble a rather peculiar hiccup. Emphasis on the third serves only to make you sound like you're announcing some great historical figure in a European accent. And the fourth syllable? Makes it sound like you're asking a question.

I found the slip of paper tucked inside a book. I don't know who left it there. I was at the public library's used book sale, and there were all sorts of odd volumes there – ancient, water-stained editions of Hardy's "Tess," and dozens of "Reader's Digest Compendiums," and even more bodice-ripping romance novels. It seems like a lot of people don't like Thomas Hardy. Dickens never shows up in used book sales – even if you don't like him, you keep his books on the shelf to impress your house-guests. That's what my aunt always used to do. She's still single, though, and showing her age – sixty-seven – so I don't suppose that it matters whether she likes Dickens or not.

The book was entitled, "Chess: Play Your Way to the Top." I don't know why I picked it out. I'm horrible at chess; every time I play I have to consult the rule book to remind myself of which pieces do what. Do you try to capture the king or the queen? Do pawns move in L-shapes or is it knights? Do you have to skip over the white squares? I'm much better at checkers. It's a game more suitable for my IQ level. But, as I thought when I picked the book out of a worn old cardboard box, it wouldn't hurt me to learn how to play chess. Properly, this time. Like having the odd Charles Dickens tome on your shelf, it's impressive to tell people that you can play chess. They automatically assume that you're either a) a math genius or b) the possessor of an awesome and unsurpassable intellect.

I flipped through the book once I got home, and was immediately repulsed by the way it was written. Not written, exactly; more like the way it was printed – row upon row of tiny letters crisscrossing each page. The font was minute, and when I say that I needed a magnifying glass to read it, I am being quite literal. Disgusted, I tossed the book aside, only to see a handful of papers fall out of it.

Foremost was the slip of paper with the word scrawled on it. It was printed in rounded, childish handwriting, likely a young girl's. Some fantasy word made up for a game, I supposed. But on another piece of paper, I found a set of instructions:

"Say it three times. Like you mean it. Then wait."

I was quite sure that these sentences applied to the word. It made sense; all the other pieces of paper consisted of drawings of horses – again, very childishly. They either resembled bathtubs held up on four tooth picks or ridiculously skinny lions with pink ribbons in their manes.

I tucked the pieces of paper back into the chess book, and promptly forgot all about them. That was during midterm exams, you see, and I had more important things to worry about – getting good grades, for one, so that I could make it to a university of my choice. I was absolutely focused on my career back then: psychologist. Not merely psychologist, but STAR psychologist. I was going to be the most-lauded of my profession. The best student in my class. The scholarship sponge.

Once midterms had passed, I returned to my pile of used-book-sale-books for a much-needed break. Of course, when I peered at the chess book again, I remembered the papers. And so we come to my difficulty pronouncing the word. I have attempted to say it three times, very carefully, and I've waited with the most extreme patience for something to happen. Nothing has.

I am exactly sixteen years too old to believe in fairy tales, but my lack of success with this word-spell is very frustrating. I find myself believing that it will work, even while I rationally berate myself for being so gullible. But there is a quality to the word – something otherworldly, something strange and not quite tangible. Take the word "gullible" for instance. It's right there. On paper, in your ears, behind your eyes, on your tongue. You can feel every last bit of it resounding in your body when you experience hearing, reading or saying it. You own the word entirely.

But not this word.

It's different. That's all I know – that's the only thing I know about it. Do I know what it means? No. Do I know what language it is? No, not really, only that it uses English characters. It does seem rather Anglo-saxon, though. There's just something about the way it is written on the page. An earnestness, perhaps; a child's firm conviction that no matter what happens, the word will always remain indisputably true in its meaning and function. Whoever wrote the word wrote it with confidence, pen pressed hard onto the paper. Each stroke is bold and smooth.

I analyze things too much. I know I do. This is one of my faults. It keeps coming up repeatedly at school – my teachers are always telling me to calm down, take a break, stop thinking so hard…

But this word just gets to me.

I want something to happen. I really do. I think I've said it in every way possible, every combination of sounds and emphases I can possibly devise for a word of this complexity. Not that it's complex.

Simplistic, based almost entirely on direct sound changes – no diphthongs or strange hard to pronounce silent letters…

I just can't understand why it won't work. It seems so easy.

Chestomancy, Chestomancy, Chestomancy.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Disclaimer_**: Everything and anything Chrestomanci-related belongs entirely to Diana Wynne Jones. Actually, how about this: everything GOOD and EXCELLENT in children's fantasy is the product of DWJ's amazing brain. You can infer whatever you want from that statement.

**_Author's Note_**: Thank you to _Blue Yeti_, _passivor_, _Poisenivy_, _ShNLo_, and _you-know-who_ for reviewing! (I love reviews. Who doesn't?) To everyone who hasread the story: thank you also. I'm going to try and update this at least once a week, if not more frequently.

Enjoy!

**The Word**

**- 2 -**

I am currently sitting on a park bench in the middle of nowhere. It's not even in a park. For whatever reason, the city's engineers decided that a cement island in the middle of a traffic circle with no obviously viable means of access would be the perfect spot to set a park bench. So here I am.

It's a lovely place to think, or to study, if you want to be alone; during peak hours the traffic is so bad that no one can get across to the island from the other side of the road, let alone get back to the other side of the road from the island. I got here early this morning, when it was still dark. It is a Tuesday, and I am skipping school.

I simply cannot concentrate any more. This word issue is weighing much too heavily on my mind. I am so sick of thinking about "Chestomancy." It's like staring at a picture of an object you don't recognize for days on end. Constantly. Pervading every nook and cranny in my brain.

I never skip class. I have my textbooks in a bag beside me, but I haven't opened the bag yet, and I've been here five hours. I haven't even eaten.

I haven't tried saying the word yet, either.

The time just doesn't seem right. Something needs to happen first, before I can say it.

In fact, the word doesn't sound right. I suppose the slip of paper turned up in a book about chess because the first phoneme sounds like the word "chess." But something just sounds wrong. In fact, when I'm saying the word, I give myself the impression that not only am I pronouncing it wrong, but I haven't even got the right word for the thing I want to pronounce.

Perhaps whoever scrawled it down on that piece of paper spelled it wrong?

But the writing is so deliberate…I can't imagine anyone making a spelling mistake with such forceful handwriting. Unless it's some kind of half-remembered word, a spelling that the – presumably – child didn't quite recall, but wanted to write down anyway.

None of this is making much sense. I've obviously lost several IQ points in the course of this morning, trying to puzzle this thing out. One would think that my IQ would jump in the other direction, but I am a contradiction to many known facts and assumptions. When I get frustrated, I tend to dig myself into even deeper holes. Remarkably, I also tend to climb back out at the very last minute. (I'm speaking in riddles about exams. I haven't crammed for an exam in ages – regular study habits, check – but when I did cram for exams, I would do absolutely nothing for weeks in advance of the exam, spend the entire night before the exam reading my notes and textbooks, and then ace the exam the next day. Don't ask me how I did it. I don't even know.)

"Chestomancy" is not an exam. If there is one thing I know that it is not, then that is it. I'm thinking about taking the problem to my Aunt Dulcie – she can solve puzzles without even thinking about them. Okay, perhaps not without thinking about them, but she's certainly very good at things that boggle everyone else's minds. She's not really my aunt, per say, but my mother's aunt. I believe that makes her my Great Aunt. But Great Aunt Dulcie is quite a large mouthful, and besides, she doesn't seem very old. The only time she ages herself – purposely – is when she's in a reminiscing mood, and then she sits and describes "the old days" for hours on end. Listening to her, you would think that everyone still travelled around on broomsticks when she was in school.

The more that I think about, the more it seems like going to Aunt Dulcie is the right thing to do. After all, I'm obviously stumped. I wouldn't still be here on this muddling park bench if I weren't.

Now I just have to figure out how to get off this cement island in the middle of nowhere. Judging by the traffic, it may take me several hours.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Diana Wynne Jones is by far one of the best writers of children's fantasy in the twentieth/twenty-first centuries, and her books speak for themselves. I'm borrowing characters and names and places in an effort to bide time until her next book comes out (The Pinhoe Egg! Everyone! Go to your nearest bookstore on September 28/06!). Not for profit.

Author's Note: I must say, I just realized that in my last author's note I said I'd update this every week or so. My apologies. Every six months would have been more appropriate. That said, I'll finish this story as quickly as possible. Meaning, hopefully, within the next month and a half. And yes, it really does have something to do with the DWJ universe. Have fun figuring it out!

**The Word**

**- 3 -**

We visited Aunt Dulcie yesterday afternoon. I fully intended to get her opinion on my magic word and the mysterious slips of paper. Mother and I frequently go over to her place; the invitation, this time, I believe, was based on the fact that Aunt Dulcie had just invented some new recipe for muffins and wanted to test the results on us. Mother cannot bake. That is the one thing she laments. In all other areas, she is a most respectable housewife. Dad used to say that there was nothing else she couldn't do. It's quite true. He even made up rhymes about her. He was a poet, dear old Dad. We still have a few of his chapbooks lying around, even though Mother took most of them to the library last year.

Aunt Dulcie made us sit down in her dusty red parlour and fed us buttered biscuits and tea. In the brownish shade, we discussed the weather and her rheumatism, and the new muffin recipe. Raspberry-lemon poppyseed. They were still in the oven. Mother disappeared to make a phone call to her manager, and Aunt Dulcie dragged me into the kitchen to help her wash up.

"Now, girl," she said as she pulled on a pair of strikingly orange rubber gloves, "What did you want to ask me? I could see it in your face the whole time. You have to watch those eyes of yours. Give too much away to somebody one day."

"I wanted to ask you about a puzzle," I said, glancing past Aunt Dulcie at the kitchen table. There were six bulk packages of instant oatmeal neatly piled on top of it. She followed my gaze and raised her thinly plucked eyebrows.

"Haven't eaten it since I was younger than you." She thrust a dripping whisk at me and pointed at the dishtowel hanging on the rack to my left. I caught the whisk and dried it. "Figured I might as well have a taste of the stuff and see if my opinion's changed. Seems I never could stop telling people how dreadful it was back when I was in school."

"You went to private school, right?"

"Certainly did."

"What was it like? I know you've told me, but…"

She sighed, heavily and dramatically. "Constant source of fascination to you young folk these days." I grinned and looked down at the plate I was drying. Aunt Dulcie refused to buy a dishwasher. She said she could wash dishes faster than any machine. I don't doubt it.

"School was dreadful at first, and then lovely afterwards."

This was the way she always began her school stories; as if she had some kind of ritual. She never told me why it was dreadful, but my favourite part of hearing her talk was the "lovely afterwards."

"When I realized that I could make things up to great effect in writing class, I began to enjoy myself." I paused, briefly. This was out of order. Usually she told me about how much she liked telling people things first, and then how much she liked telling lies. After that she would go into the bit about English class. "But I've told you that, dearie, and you don't need to hear it again. I'll tell you about something else instead."

"There were four or five of us who were all quite close, and we remained good friends for quite some time after school ended. During the summers we would run all over the place and visit each other, cajole our parents into taking us down to the seaside on particular days so that we could run wild and make havoc for the man selling ices. The boys would bring their games and play, and we girls would link arms and stroll along the beach, kicking pebbles and complaining about how short our holidays always seemed."

I smiled at the mixing bowl in my hands, and polished a speck of muffin batter away with the dishtowel.

"Seeing as I'm on perpetual holidays now, I thought I might as well call a few of them up and see if they'd like to visit. When your mother gets off the phone, we're driving to the airport to pick up Stella."

I stopped drying and stared at her in astonishment. "You're having someone – a friend come over and stay with you?"

"Why not?" The corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement. "Am I too old to have sleepovers?"

Perhaps, but I thought better of saying so. "Have you told Mother yet?"

"No, you silly thing! Your mother is a goose when it comes to her Aunt. Don't forget she wanted me to buy that ratty bungalow just so I wouldn't have to climb stairs. She would never let me play host to a guest, let alone one equally old as me."

I blushed. "You're not old, Aunt Dulcie."

"Don't tell me you didn't just think so."

Mother walked into the room that moment. "What have you two been chatting about while I was gone?" she asked brightly. "Nothing too naughty, I hope."

"Come now, Marjorie," said Aunt Dulcie, rinsing the soap suds from her hands and snatching my towel away. "We have somewhere to be."

Mother shot me a raised eyebrows, what-on-earth-could-she-possibly-be-planning-now? look. I shrugged helplessly and followed Aunt Dulcie out of the room.

"Have I missed something?" Mother hissed in my ear.

"Maybe?"

Aunt Dulcie was already at the front door. Mother ran across the kitchen, switched off the oven, and threw up her hands despairingly. I grinned, and we headed out to the car.

Aunt Dulcie told me to come back this afternoon and ask whatever I had to ask while Stella was there. Something along the lines of "two heads are better than one." I would have asked them yesterday, but Stella – a perfectly charming, white-haired lady of innumerable years – was much too tired to "sit and listen to little birds' chatter," according to Aunt. She's come all the way from the United States, where she runs a riding academy.

Chestomancy will have to wait. I have had an idea, though. What if it's a school – a private school, some fancy place out in the country? It has the right sort of feel, and the spelling seems so gentlemanly. I'll have to ask Aunt Dulcie what her school was called. I must not become obsessed with this. I have far too much work waiting for me at school. And I still haven't tried the raspberry-lemon poppyseed muffins Aunt Dulcie sent home with us.

Perhaps this search will be dreadful first, and lovely afterwards. I dearly hope so.


End file.
